The Ghost Camp; or, the Avengers. Rolf Boldrewood
fastnesses, what well-nigh undiscoverable hiding-places, Blount thought, might not be available amid these highlands for refugees from justice—for the transaction of secret or illegal practices!
He was aroused from such a reverie by the cheery voice of his companion, who evidently was not minded to enjoy the beauty of the morning, or the mysterious expanse of the landscape in silence. “Great country this, Mr. Blount!” he exclaimed, with patronising appreciation. “Pity we haven’t a few more men and women to the square mile. There’s work and payin’ occupation within sight”—here he waved his hand—“for a hundred years to come, if it was stocked the right way. Good soil, regular rainfall, timber, water no end, a bit coldish in winter; but look at Scotland, and see the men and women it turns out! I’d like to be Governor for ten years. What a place I’d make of it!”
“And what’s the reason you people of Australia, natives of the soil, and so on, can’t do it for yourselves, without nobles, King or Kaiser—you’ve none of them to blame?”
“Haven’t we? We’ve too many by a dashed sight, and that’s the reason we can’t get on. They call them Members of Parliament here, and they do nothing but talk, talk, talk.”
“Oh! I see; but they’re elected by the people, for the people, and so on. The people—you and your friends, that is—must have been fools to elect them. Isn’t that so?”
“Of course it is. And this is how it comes; there’s always a lot of fellers that like talking better than work. They palaver the real workers, who do all the graft, and carry the load, and once they’re in Parliament and get their six pound a week it’s good-bye to honest work for the rest of their lives. It’s a deal easier to reel out any kind of rot by the yard than it is to make boots and shoes, or do carpentering, or blacksmith’s work.”
“H—m! should say it was. Never tried either myself; but when they get into Parliament don’t they do anything?”
“Well, in a sort of way, but they’re dashed slow about it. Half the time, every law has to be altered and patched and undone again. They’re in no hurry, bless you!—they’re not paid by the job; so the longer they are about it the more pay and ‘exes’ they rake in.”
“What’s wrong with the law about this particular neighbourhood?”
“Well, they’re allowed to take up too much land for one thing. I wouldn’t give more than a hundred acres, if I had my way, to any selector,” said this vigorous reformer. “The soil’s rich, the rainfall’s certain, and the water-supply’s everlastin’. What’s wanted is labour—men and women, that means. It’ll grow anything, and if they’d keep to fruit, root crops, and artificial grasses, they could smother theirselves with produce in a year or two. Irrigate besides. See that race? You can lead water anywhere you like in this district.”
“Well, why don’t they? One would think they could see the profit in it. Here it is, under their feet.”
“It’s this way; a man with a couple of thousand acres can keep a flock of sheep. They don’t do extra well, but they grow a fleece once a year, and when wool’s a decent price the family can live on it—with the help of poultry, eggs and bacon, and chops now and then. It’s a poor life, and only just keeps them—hand to mouth, as it were.”
“Still, they’re independent.”
“Oh! independent enough—the ragged girls won’t go out to service. The boys loaf about on horseback and smoke half the time. If they had only a hundred acres or so, they couldn’t pretend to be squatters. The men would dig more and plough more, the greater part of the area would be cultivated, they could feed their cows in winter (which is long and cold in these parts), fatten pigs, have an orchard (look at the apple-trees at the last place we passed), do themselves real well, and have money in the bank as well.”
“We must have a republic, and make you first Dictator, I see that. Now, where does this tremendous ravine lead to?”
“It leads through Wild Horse Gully, down to the Dark River—we’d better get off and walk the next mile or two—there’s a big climb further on.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the traveller. “How wild horses or any other travel about here, astonishes me. Where do they come from? There were none in Australia when the first people came, I suppose?”
“Not a hoof. They’ve all been bred up from the stray horses that got away from the stations, long ago. They’re in thousands among these mountains. It takes the squatters at the heads of the rivers all their time to keep them under.”
“Do they do much harm?”
“Well, yes, a lot. They eat too much grass for one thing, and spoil more than they eat, galloping about. Then they run off the station horses, especially the mares. Once they join the wild mob, they’re never seen again. Get shot by mistake, too, now and again.”
“Why! do they shoot horses here?”
“Shoot ’em, of course! The hides and hair fetch a fairish price. Some men live by it. They make trap yards, and get as many as a hundred at a time. The squatters shoot them now and again, and pay men to do it.”
“It seems a pity. A horse is a fine animal, wild or tame, but I suppose they can’t be allowed to over-run the country.”
The Wild Horse Gully, down which they were proceeding at a slow and cautious pace, was a tortuous and narrow pathway, hemmed in by rugged precipitous mountain sides. From its nature it was impracticable for wheeled vehicles, but the tracks of horses and cattle were recent and deeply indented. These his companion scrutinised with more than ordinary care. The horse tracks were in nearly all instances those of unshod animals, but as he pointed out, there were two sets of recent imprints on the damp red loam, of which the sharp edges and nail heads told of the blacksmith’s shop as plainly as if a printed notice had been nailed to one of the adjacent tree trunks; also that a dozen heavy cattle had gone along in front of them at rather a fast pace. These last had come in on a side track, their sliding trail down the face of the mountain showing plainly how they had arrived, and, as nearly as possible, to the experienced eye of one horseman, at what hour.
The day had been tedious, even monotonous, the pace necessarily slow; the chill air of evening was beginning to be felt, when the bushman, with a sigh of relief, pointed to a thin wreath of smoke. On an open, half-cleared spot, a hut built of horizontal logs was dimly visible; a narrow eager streamlet ran close to the rude dwelling, while at their approach a pair of cattle dogs began to bark as they walked in a menacing manner towards the intruders.
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